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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834061">Nombrar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/miametropolis/pseuds/miametropolis'>miametropolis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>English Translations Provided, Español | Spanish, Latinenatural, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Tension, sobrenatural, spanglish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:29:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/miametropolis/pseuds/miametropolis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts off as a joke. There’s this man, this thing, crackling with energy and ozone and sheer power standing in front of him. It makes his hair stand on end. </p>
<p>Coño, he thinks. Shit. </p>
<p>The birth of a nickname.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nombrar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It starts off as a joke. There’s this man, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>crackling with energy and ozone and sheer </span>
  <em>
    <span>power </span>
  </em>
  <span>standing in front of him. It makes his hair stand on end. When Castiel walks into that barn </span>
  <em>
    <span>en el casa del carajo</span>
  </em>
  <span> and at the beginning of everything, he is electricity defined. To have all that focused on him? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Un pinche listillo</span>
  </em>
  <span> raised on diner food and dedicated to little more than raising hell? (Fresh from it, in fact). It’s a little much. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then there’s the staring. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel his eyes tracking him—tracing the back of his neck, the slope of his chin, the curve of his back. (Not that he thinks anything of it. The guy had just jumped down from the gates of Heaven.  He guesses that after dinner with </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Virgen </span>
  </em>
  <span>and being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>wavelength of celestial intent </span>
  </em>
  <span>each morning, human habits meant little. How could he even know? Maybe he’d speak to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Por Dios</span>
  </em>
  <span>—speak to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then there was the weight on Dean’s shoulders. His Heavenly mission that couldn’t be spoken about. He supposes Castiel was scanning him, watching for the cracks and faults. Waiting to see if he’d fail. No matter the occasion—body aching, cheek still bleeding, in a barely-lit motel room or tossing the greasy chilaquiles napkins out the window of the Impala--Castiel’s gaze bores into him. Steady. Inscrutable. Keeping watch. Yet even something that small, that distant, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his gaze, </span>
  </em>
  <span>holds power. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Coño. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Every time Cas walks into a room Dean can feel that bond between them, straining like a rope pulled taut. It scares him. If he’s honest, it puts the fear of God in him. Cas walks into a room and his mind grinds to a halt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Que Dios me bendiga</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he prays thoughtlessly, catching a glimpse of that dark hair and ridiculous trench coat swinging behind him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maldito loco</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. (He winces despite himself). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So it’s just natural that Dean finds a way to tease him. It’s just a nickname after all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Casito”.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>It’s ridiculous—a force of angelic power taller than the Chrysler building and Dean has the </span><em><span>cojones</span></em><span> to call him </span><em><span>-ito</span></em><span> anything</span><em><span>.</span></em> <em><span>You should be struck down</span></em><span>, Sammy’s voice offers from somewhere, the </span><em><span>fresa</span></em><span>. But it takes the edge off. When Cas’s gaze—</span><em><span>madre di Dios</span></em><span>, those goddamn </span><em><span>eyes—</span></em><span>bores into him, he lobs a nickname of his own at him.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Anytime Cas’s stare becomes too much to bear, when Dean starts to shift in his seat a little, it comes out—unbidden. He just needs to get his head around the guy, to make him comprehensible. To beat back the freight train of his pulse that makes him want to run or scream or—or....or else. Dean just needs to bring him down to size. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Cas appears next to him the mirror, solid and imposing, hair tossed across his brow, face arch. Just a hair’s breadth from his own. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>¡Coño!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he screams. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Casito—</span>
  </em>
  <span>“ he grits out, irritation blooming over his skin. He waits, ready for Cas to step away. He doesn’t.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Casito,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dean tries again, eyes flickering to the distance between them. He closes his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ya.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Of course,” Cas responds, seeming to remember their earlier conversation in real time. Dean shudders, letting out a heavy breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“¿</span>
  <em>
    <span>Que tu quieres?” </span>
  </em>
  <span> he responds, eyes flicking from lip to brow. The moment is broken. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tests it a few more times. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oye, Casito</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he grins at his most daring, eyebrows waggling. Cas’s gaze is unshakeable. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No por nada, pero el ultimo que me mirar como así, bueno….”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>his grin becomes wolfish. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Eché un polvo.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” If Cas is offended, he doesn’t betray it: his stare only grows deeper, his glower more deep and electric. But Dean thinks he sees a crack. A quiver in his brow. Some little sign that he feels, that Dean can reach him. That Cas isn’t some impenetrable force, poised to strike him down. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cállate, Sam</span>
  </em>
  <span>). Somehow, he feels better. So he uses it again, punctuating his quips or late-night jokes with a</span>
  <em>
    <span> Casito </span>
  </em>
  <span>here and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Casito</span>
  </em>
  <span> there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t until Zachariah pries around inside his mind, until he zaps him into that other world where Cas is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong, wrong, all wrong—</span>
  </em>
  <span>worn out and blazed and ready to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking die for him </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it becomes something real. Something sweet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Dean sits around a dimly lit war room with a nightmare version of himself. He barely takes his eyes off Cas who, for once, doesn’t seem too interested with him at all. “</span><em><span>Oye</span></em> <em><span>Casito,</span></em><span>” he tries once, face mustering a shadow of a smile. It feels false even to him, but other-Cas’s face splits wide open. He rolls his head back and </span><em><span>laughs. </span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <span>What?” Dean stutters out, suddenly nervous. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>¿Que? ¿Tengo algo en la cara?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he swipes at his jaw for good measure. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No, nada,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” other-Cas grins, shaking his head, brows oddly drawn. There’s a haunted look to his face that stops him in his tracks. Other-him’s scowl is like a lead weight. Cas locks eyes with him—that version of him. “What? I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> past you.” Something hot and bitter wraps itself around his throat. The conversation ends there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Dean manages to catch his elbow as they leave the cabin, Other-Dean striding ahead to give battle orders. “Cas,” he begs, tongue suddenly heavy, his mouth dry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“¿Que le paso?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Cas’s pupils fight their way back to this plane of existence, dragging across the bridge of Dean’s nose until he finds his eyes. That rope between them feels like it’s breaking. Dean feels like he’s burning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Life.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>------------</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When his knees buckle under him and he lands on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pinche Kansas highway, 2009, gracias a fucking Dios—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Cas’s gaze feels like benediction. There’s something sweet and cool unfurling in the back of Dean’s mind as he stares at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas is there—eyes bright and trained on Deans’, face soft and open. He’s never loved anyone more. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Casito,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he orders, fingers gripping Cas’s shoulder, his stomach twisting when his face brightens at the nickname. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Never do that again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he wants to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t ever become someone I can’t save, someone who can’t save me.  Don’t ever change. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nunca cambies</span>
  </em>
  <span>” . </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>huge gracias to @casitosupremacia on tumblr for being my beta reader! amigas for life, I say </p>
<p>I hope you enjoyed my little slice of the sobrenatural that lives inside my head. Please feel free to leave a comment, send an ask, or drop your own latinenatural headcanons below!! </p>
<p>as always, you can visit me at @castheeell or my main @miamtetropolis on tumblr </p>
<p>viva Casito 🥰✋</p>
<p>——————————</p>
<p>English translations:</p>
<p>-in the middle of nowhere <br/>-a fucking wiseass <br/>-The Virgin (Mary)<br/>-for the love of God<br/>-shit.<br/>-God help me <br/>-fucking weirdo <br/>-the balls <br/>-smartass / college girl (loving yet derogatory)<br/>-mother of God <br/>-Shit<br/>-enough <br/>-What do you want?<br/>-Hey, Casito.<br/>-Not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that, well...I got laid.<br/>-Shut up, Sam<br/>-Hey, Casito<br/>-What? Do I have something on my face?<br/>-What happened to you?<br/>-fucking Kansas highway, 2009, thanks be to God <br/>-Don’t ever change.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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